


Why'd It Take So Long To See The Light?

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Canon Universe, December 1963, Drugs, Emotions, Heartbreak, Loss, Love, M/M, Marriage, Metaphors, Oneshot, Pining, Sadness, Tradegy, mary morstan - Freeform, metaphorical death, why'd it take so long to see the light?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Oh what a night,Why'd it take so long to see the light?





	Why'd It Take So Long To See The Light?

  The music still rang in his mind as he crouched on the cold floor, clutching his phone to his chest, curled into himself as if he could take less and less space to the point of disappearing entirely. Everything felt cold and distant, the song’s lyrics playing in his head over and over again like the death song playing at his funeral, and he was shivering violently as heat flared in his cheeks and his chest ached and burned as his heart broke within it.

  The needle laid out on the floor behind him meant nothing as the world reduced to his single being laying on the ground of his once-lively flat. His mind emptied and everything stopped making sense as reality bent and morphed into a new, different place and soon he found he didn’t know why the tear tracks were running down his cheeks and his chest burned in agony.

  Then a face of an old enemy –or friend?- appeared in his mind and started whispering, retelling him the words that had rung through his mind since the music had faded away into nothing and the lights became so distant he couldn’t have seen them, even in the dark; even if he’d bothered turning back to the frying-pot he’d walked out of, lit up with the colours of happiness shared by only those who didn’t burn within the light.

  His heart was beating so loudly in his ears he couldn’t hear anything of his surroundings as he walked further and further away from the place he’d spent hours; hours dying and burning up all with the face of an indifferent angel there to congratulate those who enjoyed the very thing that killed him.

  Out of the frying-pot into the fire.

  Hell.

  Hell was the sound of silence and the distortion of reality; the blissfully empty mind right before it turned into another world of pain, somewhere the pain could be dulled to minimum, or moulded and sculpted into something better and easier to live with like joy, where it could turn hatred to genuine felicitation and stop him from feeling like a dead man trying to walk among the living, smiling as if to make out as though he was one of them:

  Someone who could smile without crying and fall without dying and not spend every second pretending there wasn’t a dagger being pushed into his chest, more and more pressure added by the second until it broke the skin and cut into his body and stayed there, taunting him, because he was broken and he was a dead man already, and as soon as the dagger was gone he’d bleed to death without the aid of the doctor too busy living to help him heal.

  So the detective walked out, his armour replaced on his back, his face hidden within the cloak of darkness; an extra layer of invisibility, and didn’t turn back to the place he convinced himself had finalised the end of his life, as though without that place and its ability to grant forever, he might have had a chance to be unbroken; saved, from the agony of losing everything he wanted and needed, and that maybe one day the hellish chapter would be over and the next would begin; an era of happiness and fulfilment where his soul could finally stop being left half-finished and bleeding, and he could finally be complete.

  But this day and this night had proved once and for all that nothing like that could ever happen and Sherlock Holmes would continue burning until the end of time. So he left the frying-pot behind as it called out to his fading figure, in attempt to taunt or comfort, he didn’t know, but calling the words he knew were meant for him; as though only created for this moment in time, to remind him how lost he was.

  And from within his near-empty mind, a familiar, cold, mocking voice reminded him of the last words he’d heard before he walked home into hell.

_Why’d it take so long to see the light._

  It was over.

**Author's Note:**

> So there wasn't really much point to this. I was just trying out a writing style I've found I really like: long sentences, lots of description, and metaphors.


End file.
